Napkin Fractals
‘AV’ariegated history of political conniving
as if it trickles down to the public at large through impeccable channels
swerving the intersection of all peoples
In 1885, there were elk and buffalo in Golden Gate Park. A visitor could walk at tree level through an aviary in 1892, and traverse a bridge bedecked in bright yellow bolts and checkered carmine, from Chicken Point, to the then New Music Concourse. There was an observatory and an impressive falls, not to mention two windmills and a hallowed lake squirming in 20,000 fingering trout. Life was good, but open space is a natural attractant to the powerful—a tantalizing taste of the unspoilt to peddle and exploit. Developers are monsters in disbursal’s disguise, reining beauty and order. Extracting profit, they eradicate magic, for the most part, the arts are financial death wishes. Fleeting value must be exploited, its source is too evanescent to wrestle with. Apologies are those excepted to the weak.
Max was still drawing fractals on bar napkins when I saw him, a week and a half later. They had changed substantially since, in that his mind now folded the plane of delicate paper, rather than this fingers, which produced and begged an entirely different outcome as the virtual origami transmogrified. This is truism, I decided. The facts make themselves into recognizable form as they borrow lines the folds of time relay. I told him the meta-pattern is being reacted to, and crated into napkins he mass-produces from a higher sense of things; brother, you need a digital camera and a stitch program, to ... and he understands where I’m going, thought for thought, although his computer skills are nil. Fear is the arrival of paralysis. His eyes light up; yea! HOW DO I DO ... that? Number nine played backwards on the rudimentary turntable he plugged on/in for the occasion scratching it forwards to consume us; it was like that. The lifetime bartender was playing helter-skelter, soaked in sweat from an all night binge on high-grade meth. His house mate radiated adrenal angst; I thought about Charles Manson, and Adolphaphine; the hot springs where he reputedly laid low, and the young frond of a girl, who managed to crawl to the river with a slit throat. It all seemed to be coming together. The cap of the pen looked like a cigarette, and the nicotine receptors we supposedly aren’t born with, began to glow. You know, you are channeling Charles Bukowski is that the ‘pronounciation’ why are you writing at a bar? Besides it’s interesting and it’s here? Because ... but the existential side of that, is Pulitzer prize bl/and/or mundane.
in SOME WAYS he was designing a park. Not a ....Olmstead sort, but a far-reaching fabric, a two dimensional topographic map of plastic reality, which self organized into new playful alternatives. Every sentence has thousands of variations you’ll never have time derive; just say something, and it’s antithesis is contained there, waiting to be mined. It slowly dawns on me, this madness constitutes single frames of an entire movie, computers would shuffle and control. The fractal of all the possibilities he wrought upon delicate tissues were designed from the unconscious to connect in ways only distance could provide. Single cells’ destiny to clump into connected, complex structures, which tined inexplicably to others surrounding them, changing constantly all the while, suggested an experience his outer world proves its radical mirror in.
The enormous policeman dreaming of fish by a warm sea escorts the cute little whore to the back of the Taco joint, where it takes years of patronage to gain the respect of those serving you.
The accidental entry of a cartridge-belted hipster underlined the fact he’s probably never seen Alexandria, Osaka, or Dresden burn, and the riffraff filling the place, states it bluntly, by examining shoes. Drunken glutton-eers scarfed ‘cheeze’ saturated deep fry, chasing the caveman’s desire for calories—in whose vein, I threw myself into the pleasures free radicals ordained, and the hipster, so delirious to veer-vessels-grab-eyes, slunk into the corner, while I conditioned myself to the touche, that before the ‘developers’, Golden Gate park (and the whole of the Avenues) was nothing but sand. If personal gain drives desire, it’s resultant
as if it trickles down to the public at large through impeccable channels
swerving the intersection of all peoples
In 1885, there were elk and buffalo in Golden Gate Park. A visitor could walk at tree level through an aviary in 1892, and traverse a bridge bedecked in bright yellow bolts and checkered carmine, from Chicken Point, to the then New Music Concourse. There was an observatory and an impressive falls, not to mention two windmills and a hallowed lake squirming in 20,000 fingering trout. Life was good, but open space is a natural attractant to the powerful—a tantalizing taste of the unspoilt to peddle and exploit. Developers are monsters in disbursal’s disguise, reining beauty and order. Extracting profit, they eradicate magic, for the most part, the arts are financial death wishes. Fleeting value must be exploited, its source is too evanescent to wrestle with. Apologies are those excepted to the weak.
Max was still drawing fractals on bar napkins when I saw him, a week and a half later. They had changed substantially since, in that his mind now folded the plane of delicate paper, rather than this fingers, which produced and begged an entirely different outcome as the virtual origami transmogrified. This is truism, I decided. The facts make themselves into recognizable form as they borrow lines the folds of time relay. I told him the meta-pattern is being reacted to, and crated into napkins he mass-produces from a higher sense of things; brother, you need a digital camera and a stitch program, to ... and he understands where I’m going, thought for thought, although his computer skills are nil. Fear is the arrival of paralysis. His eyes light up; yea! HOW DO I DO ... that? Number nine played backwards on the rudimentary turntable he plugged on/in for the occasion scratching it forwards to consume us; it was like that. The lifetime bartender was playing helter-skelter, soaked in sweat from an all night binge on high-grade meth. His house mate radiated adrenal angst; I thought about Charles Manson, and Adolphaphine; the hot springs where he reputedly laid low, and the young frond of a girl, who managed to crawl to the river with a slit throat. It all seemed to be coming together. The cap of the pen looked like a cigarette, and the nicotine receptors we supposedly aren’t born with, began to glow. You know, you are channeling Charles Bukowski is that the ‘pronounciation’ why are you writing at a bar? Besides it’s interesting and it’s here? Because ... but the existential side of that, is Pulitzer prize bl/and/or mundane.
in SOME WAYS he was designing a park. Not a ....Olmstead sort, but a far-reaching fabric, a two dimensional topographic map of plastic reality, which self organized into new playful alternatives. Every sentence has thousands of variations you’ll never have time derive; just say something, and it’s antithesis is contained there, waiting to be mined. It slowly dawns on me, this madness constitutes single frames of an entire movie, computers would shuffle and control. The fractal of all the possibilities he wrought upon delicate tissues were designed from the unconscious to connect in ways only distance could provide. Single cells’ destiny to clump into connected, complex structures, which tined inexplicably to others surrounding them, changing constantly all the while, suggested an experience his outer world proves its radical mirror in.
The enormous policeman dreaming of fish by a warm sea escorts the cute little whore to the back of the Taco joint, where it takes years of patronage to gain the respect of those serving you.
The accidental entry of a cartridge-belted hipster underlined the fact he’s probably never seen Alexandria, Osaka, or Dresden burn, and the riffraff filling the place, states it bluntly, by examining shoes. Drunken glutton-eers scarfed ‘cheeze’ saturated deep fry, chasing the caveman’s desire for calories—in whose vein, I threw myself into the pleasures free radicals ordained, and the hipster, so delirious to veer-vessels-grab-eyes, slunk into the corner, while I conditioned myself to the touche, that before the ‘developers’, Golden Gate park (and the whole of the Avenues) was nothing but sand. If personal gain drives desire, it’s resultant
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